


Waking Dreams

by ninamazing



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Community: pd_playtime, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamazing/pseuds/ninamazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>One moment you're cubing chilled butter and the next moment her legs are around your body again, her mouth is on your mouth, and you can feel the way the sweaty surface of her thigh curves beneath your palm.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> fireworkfiasco is a bad influence and that is why I am committed to getting her off. Or -- celebratory smutlette for the opening of pd_playtime. YAY!

It would be all right if they were just dreams. Everybody has dreams. But they seep into your routine of daily wonderings, reapper without warning in the swish of your apron against the tabletop or the ripe redness of a ready strawberry, and they won't go away.

One moment you're cubing chilled butter and the next moment her legs are around your body again, her mouth is on your mouth, and you can feel the way the sweaty surface of her thigh curves beneath your palm. And you're thinking about the birthmark you know she has there, but the person behind the counter is looking at you like he just said something and you should have heard it.

"Special of the day is apple cranberry," you tell him. You're stumbling over your words. You generally do. The only time you can imagine not stuttering is if _Chuck_ , every night, curled up against you. Or maybe you'd stumble more. Maybe you'd babble and trip and fall on your words until she walked over to your side and undressed, in that calm, knowing way she has, and she'd lean over the bed for a moment like she was a tipping domino, before climbing under the covers with you, before pressing against you. You imagine her skating her fingers across you, drawing your hands to her skin, like they wouldn't kill her. You imagine her tiny whimpers of need, you imagine her twisting on top of you, urgent. You imagine the pads of her fingers pressing into the back of your head as she tangles your hair with her eagerness; you imagine her unzipping your pants, untying your apron (or maybe just lifting it up and going under).

You imagine that by the time your skin really touches her skin, she is already wet.

It's weird talking to Olive when those are the thoughts that were just in your head. You try to tell her to remember to charge for refills on coffee, but the smoky wisps of Chuck's long bare legs and Chuck's hair in your eyes are still right here with you, in the kitchen, as you're trying to work.

You roll out dough and just remember how those clay villagers you ravaged looked just as malleable, and you think to yourself: Funny. First you and Chuck ( _Chuck and you!_ ) conquered the world by crushing a Play-Doh town you made yourselves, and now the next logical step—the _only_ thing that makes sense—is kissingkissingkissing and crushing your naked bodies together until you can no longer pull them apart.

"Ned?" she calls, swinging round the corner of the kitchen entrance, pivoting on her long soft arm. You look at her and think how perfect she is, about how even though human beings aren't supposed to be perfect _she really is_ , and you're sticking to that story until you die yourself.

"What're you doing?" she asks, and if you closed your eyes and sniffed you would smell her honey.

You think how there isn't enough plastic wrap in the world. You think maybe these waking dreams won't ever go away.

You smile.


End file.
